“I have been thinking, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “that though the people of that island may at times err, in imputing their calamities to the Plujii, that, nevertheless, upon the whole, they indulge in a reasonable belief.  For, Plujii or no Plujii, it is undeniable, that in ten thousand ways, as if by a malicious agency, we mortals are woefully put out and tormented; and that, too, by things in themselves so exceedingly trivial, that it would seem almost impiety to ascribe them to the august gods.  No; there must exist some greatly inferior spirits; so insignificant, comparatively, as to be overlooked by the supernal powers; and through them it must be, that we are thus grievously annoyed.  At any rate; such a theory would supply a hiatus in my system of meta-physics.”

“Well, peace to the Plujii,” said Media; “they trouble not me.”

CHAPTER LXXXVII Nora-Bamma

Still onward gliding, the lagoon a calm.

Hours pass; and full before us, round and green, a Moslem turban by us floats—­Nora-Bamma, Isle of Nods.

Noon-tide rolls its flood.  Vibrates the air, and trembles.  And by illusion optical, thin-draped in azure haze, drift here and there the brilliant lands:  swans, peacock-plumaged, sailing through the sky.  Down to earth hath heaven come; hard telling sun-clouds from the isles.

And high in air nods Nora-Bamma.  Nid-nods its tufted summit like three ostrich plumes; its beetling crags, bent poppies, shadows, willowy shores, all nod; its streams are murmuring down the hills; its wavelets hush the shore.

Who dwells in Nora-Bamma?  Dreamers, hypochondriacs, somnambulists; who, from the cark and care of outer Mardi fleeing, in the poppy’s jaded odors, seek oblivion for the past, and ecstasies to come.

Open-eyed, they sleep and dream; on their roof-trees, grapes unheeded drop.  In Nora-Bamma, whispers are as shouts; and at a zephyr’s breath, from the woodlands shake the leaves, as of humming-birds, a flight.

All this spake Braid-Beard, of the isle.  How that none ere touched its strand, without rendering instant tribute of a nap; how that those who thither voyaged, in golden quest of golden gourds, fast dropped asleep, ere one was plucked; waking not till night; how that you must needs rub hard your eyes, would you wander through the isle; and how that silent specters would be met, haunting twilight groves, and dreamy meads; hither gliding, thither fading, end or purpose none.

True or false, so much for Mohi’s Nora Bamma.

But as we floated on, it looked the place described.  We yawned, and yawned, as crews of vessels may; as in warm Indian seas, their winnowing sails all swoon, when by them glides some opium argosie.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII In A Calm, Hautia’s Heralds Approach

“How still!” cried Babbalanja.  “This calm is like unto Oro’s everlasting serenity, and like unto man’s last despair.”